“No, speeding’s not the problem,” he said. “Your brake lights aren’t working.”
She winced. “Great,” she muttered.
“Oh, God.” This from the girl seated on the far side of the truck, a teenager whose features were a near match to Jenna’s. Daughter number one, he guessed, while the kid in the middle of the bench seat was younger, with wild reddish hair poking out of her stocking cap and a mutt of a dog on the floor at her feet. The dog growled and was shushed quickly.
“Can I see your license and registration, please?”
“Of course.” Jenna fumbled in her purse, then the glove compartment that opened with a creak. “I’m sorry about this, Officer. I usually don’t drive this truck, but my Jeep wouldn’t start this morning and I had to get the girls to school and—”
“Mom! He doesn’t want to hear your life story,” the teenager cut in. She slid Carter a dark, surreptitious glance, then stared pointedly out the passenger-side window as if the frozen roadside sludge and snow were fascinating.
“I was just explaining,” Jenna said, and managed a smile that, he supposed, was meant to melt his bad attitude. It didn’t. Not when he had a decomposed, unidentified dead woman dumped in his jurisdiction. “This must be it,” she said, pulling out a dusty envelope.
“I assume you have proof of insurance.”
“It should be in here, too.” She handed him the packet and stole a peek at her watch, reminding him that she was in a hurry.
“Look, I don’t think you want to do this,” she said.
He skewered her with a look.
“I mean, we both have better things to do.”
Pampered princess. Probably never had a ticket in her life. Yeah, I have a lot better things to do than to freeze my butt off here and listen to you try to talk your way out of a ticket you damned well deserve. “This will just take a few minutes,” he said, and was rewarded with a bored sigh from the far side of the truck.
“Good, because the girls are already late.”
“They won’t be the only ones,” he said.
“Oh.” Again the well-practiced, sexy Hollywood grin. As if she knew she could turn a man’s head and probably change his mind, a subtle attempt to get her way. Her ploy had probably worked more times than not, but this wasn’t Jenna Hughes’s lucky day. Not when Carter was in a foul mood already.
He took the information to his vehicle, checked it, and started to write out a warning, then caught himself up short. The woman deserved a citation. No doubt she was used to privilege, to getting people to do her bidding, including starstruck officers to let her off easy. Well, this wasn’t L.A., and he didn’t give a damn who she was.
Even in the heated Blazer, his fingers were half frozen as he scribbled out the citation and heard the crackle of his radio barely audible over the howl of the wind. Man, it was blowing today. A few vehicles, seeing his lights flashing, braked quickly as they passed. Cowards. More afraid of getting ticketed than of being safe or legal.
Angry at the world, he tore off the citation and climbed out of his rig. As he approached through the blowing snow, he noticed Jenna Hughes’s famous eyes watching him in the truck’s side-view mirror. Lord, she was beautiful. Drop-dead gorgeous. Not that it mattered. This morning, on his watch, she was just Jane Citizen-With-Bad-Taillights.
“Here ya go, Ms. Hughes,” he stated when she rolled down the window again and he handed her the citation. “You can go to court and they’ll most likely reduce the fine. Meanwhile, get those taillights fixed pronto—and I mean while you’re in town today. They’re a hazard.”
“I’ll try,” she said, her voice clipped, her full lips pinched at the corners.
So she was angry. Big deal. “Try real hard,” he advised with a well-practiced, humorless grin. “Drive safely, ma’am.”
She sent him a stare that had probably cut weaker men to the quick. He didn’t give a damn what she thought. Turning, he fought the wind back to his Blazer. As he climbed inside, he watched as Jenna “Hollywood” Hughes eased onto the road, using her turn signal, careful to be the considerate, law-abiding driver.
They all turned into perfect drivers once they’d gotten spanked with a ticket. He figured her new cautiousness would last all of ten minutes.
Hey, she wasn’t speeding. Wasn’t driving erratically. She just had the bad luck to have her taillights out. Give the lady a break.
Carter would. As much of a break as he’d give anyone else. No more, no less. He slid into his vehicle, turned off the overhead lights, and followed her into town.
He sat in the Canyon Café, in a corner booth near the window, and cast a quick look over the top of the half-curtains. Through the ice-glazed panes, he caught a glimpse of the old church, a wreck of a building that had seen better days and several renovations, the most current being a local theater—The Columbia Theater in the Gorge—a pretentious name if he’d ever heard one.
His hot tea came and he poured it over a glass of ice, listening to the cubes crack, noticing how they melted as the amber liquid cooled quickly. There were few patrons this morning, only a few old coots chatting about the weather. Hash browns and bacon sizzled on a grill in the kitchen, country music was barely audible, and the waitress slipped from the tables to the booths and counter. Some of the regulars were huddled over papers or deep in discussion. He waved at a few, smiled up at the waitress, and kept one eye o
n the theater.
Stirring his tea, he stared through the slit in the lower curtains while pretending to pore over the sports page. He tried to appear calm but his nerve ends were strung tight as piano wire. Energized by the cold front. Enraged by the placard in front of the theater announcing the Christmas play.